


fatale

by Liberte_Egalite_Broadway



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Basically what I'm trying to say is Nureyev is v v stylish in this fic, Blatant use of the Peter Nureyev Alias Generator™, Detective Noir, Dresses, High Heels, Juno Steel Needs a Hug, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Minor Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, Mutual Pining, My First Work in This Fandom, Nonbinary Juno Steel, Past Relationship(s), Ramses O'Flaherty is a trash human being, References to Depression, he's a funky little thief and i love him, nureyev wears garters and stores knives in them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-09-19 16:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liberte_Egalite_Broadway/pseuds/Liberte_Egalite_Broadway
Summary: It was supposed to be an easy heist. He'd be in and out with minimal risk, and then after crossing both of the people who had hired him, there would be plenty of creds to show for it. Instead, Nureyev found himself caught up in the fall of Oldtown, leading him to discover dark secrets about Hyperion City, its new mayor, and one very special detective.





	1. Weapon: Knife

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you may know me from my Night Vale fics, but I decided to try a Penumbra fic since I've been enjoying the podcast. I finished the Juno arc and am starting on Second Citadel. I worry I won't like it as much as the Juno arc, but I've just absolutely loved that arc, so of course, it would be hard to beat. 
> 
> (Nureyev is literally wearing a dress, high heels, and garters in this fic. You're welcome.) 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Past torture, depression, PTSD, thievery, references to violence and murder, guns. 
> 
> Violence, gun action, thieving, and etc. are used in a story-telling context as they appear in the Penumbra canon. I do not endorse or promote such crimes. (Obviously).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nureyev accepts a heist offer and heads to Oldtown.

The thief was thinking about Juno Steel.

This was by no means unusual - he was usually thinking about Juno Steel, and if he wasn't then he was probably thinking about what he was going to wear tomorrow, or whether the various people passing by him would be good marks. Sometimes he thought about all three at once - what heist could he pull off that would be big enough for Juno to investigate, and then once the detective showed up, what should he be wearing? 

 _Why, Juno_ , he would say, blowing a ring of smoke from perfectly lined red lips.  _Fancy running into you in a place like this. The decor is somewhat shabby, I'll admit -_ here he would wave at the various dead bodies or broken chandeliers with an elegantly gloved hand -  _but any room is brightened by you entering into it. You've done something different with your hair, haven't you? I quite like it._

At this point, Juno would probably reply with some terse remark:  _Knock it off, Nureyev_ , or _What the hell are you doing here?_ , or possibly,  _yeah, yeah, I changed my hair, now you're under arrest._ His voice would be low, and frustrated, and oh so sexy. 

Nureyev sighed, and the fantasy dispersed. 

Right now Nureyev sat alone in a stolen hotel room.  _No, not a stolen room,_ he corrected himself. The room itself was physical space and air, and that sort of thing couldn't be stolen (not to say he hadn't tried). The key had been stolen, and that allowed him entry into this room in the first place. Those concierges needed to keep closer tabs on things. He sat folded on one of those cheap hovering chairs that Hyperion City hotels tended to have, wearing a stolen plush dressing gown and studying his nails. _If one's nails are not as black as one's soul, then what is the actual point?_ he mused. Out the window, he could see cars buzzing through the various lanes of traffic, people shifting out of one level and into a higher one, the pedestrians on the street far below squinting up at what could be seen of the sun through the filter of the dome and the traffic. 

Someone knocked on the door of the hotel room. 

Nureyev  _tsk_ ed and stood up, running a hand through his hair. "One moment," he called, checking his reflection quickly. He sauntered over to the door and threw it open to reveal a man in a black suit and sunglasses, holding a small white briefcase. He glanced up at Nureyev disinterestedly through the tinted frames.

"I'm sorry, but you are not who I was expecting," said Nureyev. 

"I'm her agent," gruffed the man. He held up a security badge confirming his relationship to Nureyev's client. "Can I come in?"

"If you must," replied Nureyev with the slightest of theatrical sighs. "I much prefer to make deals in person, but I suppose you'll have to do." He stepped back and let the man into the room, closing the door behind them. The man sat down in the hover chair, and after a moment of delicate deliberation, Nureyev decided to remain standing. He leaned back against the wall and lit a cigarette. 

"I'm here on behalf of Madame Lerox," said the man, perching on the edge of the chair that was much too small for him. 

"I am aware of that, my dear sir," replied Nureyev. "Though I am a bit hurt that Madame did not deign to visit me herself." 

"Her ladyship is very busy," the man answered. His voice was difficult to read. "Also, she is on Earth at the moment. She sent me instead. Trust me when I tell you that you can have full confidence in the security of your identity, Mr. Wright."

Nureyev allowed himself a small smile. Alexander Wright was a new alias, but one that he found he rather liked. He'd received the contact request from Madame Lerox earlier that week - some Earth nobility wanting to throw her hat into the ring of Martian black market trade. A painting had been stolen from the outer rim earlier that month. The thief pressed one hand to his hip and took a long draw on the cigarette. "Let me make sure I have the details correct," he murmured through a cloud of smoke. "The painting has been purchased by a Jupiter princess and will be picked up by her servants tomorrow, at the abandoned warehouse in East Oldtown. You wish for me to break in, take it, and place it in your hands?"

"Your reward will be upfront." The man unlatched the briefcase. It popped open, revealing four stacks of crisp, new credits. "As we agreed."

The thief resisted the urge to lick his lips. 

"Quite right," he said impassively. "You may leave it on the bureau."

"I will be waiting for you in the lobby of the White Dragon cafe," said the man as he stood up and put his hat back on. Nureyev knew the place - one of the many dives that Oldtown residents frequented for bad food at low costs. Droll. 

"And I will be there," Nureyev lied. "Farewell." He closed the door behind Lerox's agent and flipped the lock. Once the man was out of sight he smiled again and strode over to the bureau. He snatched up the four stacks of creds and ran his hands through them. They rustled so prettily. The thief set them down again and opened the bureau, shuffling through the clothes he had stored there. There was no purpose to a heist that was not performed in style. He fingered the lapel on a red silk coat and considered. 

He wouldn't give the painting to the man, that he knew. In fact, there was already a buyer lined up to give him another stack of credits, someone who thought herself to be dealing with a Mr. Lazarus Hart. All he had to do was get it from the warehouse, clear out of this hotel room, and steal another key.  _It's never been difficult_ , he mused, holding up two dresses side by side. He wondered vaguely whether this heist would make the broadcasts. He wondered if Juno watched news broadcasts and understood that the various aliases were all his work. 

While he dressed he glanced at the mirror across the room. A flicker of pain crossed his face as he noticed again the scars crisscrossing his chest and arms. For a moment he wasn't in the hotel room at all but strapped to an electrical machine while Miasma's guards breathed down his neck and electric currents jolted through his body - 

His palms slammed against the nightstand, and he realized that his breath was coming in gasps. He wiped his forehead and stood up straighter.  _Not going to think about that now_ , he thought firmly as he finished zipping his dress.  _Not now._ He put on his overcoat and stuffed the four stacks of money into a pocket, then buttoned the pocket, strode to the door, and went out.

 

Down in the street, Nureyev walked with both leisure and intention. His heels echoed on the pavement as his dark eyes swept along the crowded streets. To the right, a woman in a red pantsuit handed out pamphlets on a building's stoop. To the left, two young boys seemed to be initiating a brawl. Streetlights sputtered over puddles of dark water, and buildings huddled together, with blinds over the windows like masks covering eyes. Faces as old as time itself shivered over drinks on the doorstep of bars, the rest of the figures obscured by ratty coats and shadows. The people all around him were wrung out with rainwater and a few of them watch him shiftily. 

A man a few paces ahead stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and waved for a taxi. Nureyev focused on him and sped his pace in a way that was effective but not obvious.

Suddenly, a loud siren blared and lights from above spotlighted the street. The people huddling covered their ears and ran for cover from whatever unknown threats descended. A roaring wind tore through the place, tossing his hair and coat. Nureyev looked up and saw mayoral cars descending from the sky amidst a flock of black helicopters. 

"ATTENTION OLDTOWN RESIDENTS," boomed a raspy voice from unseen speakers. "THIS IS YOUR NEW MAYOR, RAMSES O'FLAHERTY. PLEASE REMAIN CALM."

The crowd of people had somehow thickened, and they jostled Nureyev. He shoved them aside and sprinted down the sidewalk to the man waving for the taxi. He grabbed the man by the shoulders. "I am ever so sorry about this, my good sir," he said, and then before the man had a chance to speak, Nureyev dashed him to the pavement and left him in an unconscious heap just as the taxi pulled up.

"What the -" mumbled the startled driver as Nureyev climbed in.

"Take me to the abandoned warehouse, please." 

"But you can't just -"

Nureyev sighed and pulled a fistful of creds from his pocket, tossing them in the driver's direction. She eyed him warily.

"The abandoned warehouse, you said?"

"If you wouldn't mind terribly."

She examined the money, then rattled off a list of curse words, shoved it into her pocket, and flipped the key. They shot up into the air. Soon they were high above the congested streets that teemed with masses of humanity and were instead caught in a storm of helicopters. The same raspy voice kept booming announcements. It was quite distressing, and Nureyev covered his ears in annoyance. They were nearing East Oldtown when he heard -

"ALL CARS ARE TO LAND IMMEDIATELY," thundered the voice of Mayor O'Flaherty. The driver's surprised eyes flicked up to Nureyev's in the rearview mirror. He gritted his sharp teeth. Yes, this was really going to be very annoying. Everything always had to be complicated, didn't it? Complicated and inconvenient. "Keep driving, please," he said. 

"But that man said -"

"Please," he repeated, and then because she still didn't look convinced he flipped a knife out of his coat pocket. The driver's eyes widened further. "It is not my intention to harm you, but I really must insist that you keep driving. For both our sakes." 

The woman eyed him, then the knife. She looked out the window and then back at the knife. She kept driving. 

 


	2. Weapon: Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Airborne shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized after writing this chapter that the new Juno story is about to drop, and therefore if Nureyev comes back, this fic is (hopefully) about to become canon impossible, so I'm preemptively marking it AU.

Moments later, one of the giant black cars peeled off from the rest of the fleet and towards them. A door flew open, and a man in a black suit leaned out with one hand braced inside his vehicle and the other pointing a gun at theirs. "This is your final warning!" the man shouted, his voice projected by some unseen speaker. "Land, or perish!"

Really very uncreative dialogue. Nureyev sighed. 

"We're going to die!" screamed the cab driver, slamming her foot on the brake. "I'm landing! We're going to die!" 

"Please, my dear miss, do not be so melodramatic," said Nureyev. The cab driver shoved the descent lever down, which made the car shudder slowly towards the street. Nureyev sighed, unbuckled, and threw the door open. The taxi driver continued screaming, but Nureyev ignored her. He braced one hand around the seat's headrest and swung out the door, whipping out his gun with the other hand. 

"KEEP DRIVING!" he shouted to the taxi driver while he fired off a round of lasers into the propellor of the nearest helicopter. A burst of gunfire answered him. He ducked back into the taxi and covered his head while the back windshield exploded into glass shards around him. When he lifted his head again, he saw that the taxi driver was slumped in her seat. The car was hurtling to the ground. 

"Ah, hell," said Nureyev as he dove into the front seat. He pulled on the lever she had adjusted, and the car sputtered to a halt in midair. The taxi driver mumbled something incomprehensible - so she wasn't dead, well that was good. He'd let her figure out how to land the car once she came to. "I do apologize for the vehicle damage I have caused," he said delicately as he stole back the money he had paid her. He pulled off the headrest for the passenger seat and smashed the front windshield. "Best of luck to you!" With that, he dove through the windshield and onto the hood of the car. The wind whipped around him, nearly knocking him over, and more laser bolts pelted the metal of the car around him. He clung to the vehicle in a most undignified way. It would be impossible to get his footing, not in high heels and a wind storm - and now it was raining. Of course it was! Of course, it always had to rain exactly when he needed it not to. Nureyev sighed and heaved to his feet, driving the heels of his shoes into the indents of the bullet marks. 

"OLDTOWN RESIDENTS ARE TO MAKE THEIR WAY TO THE NEAREST GOVERNMENT BUILDING AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTION," boomed the mayor's raspy voice. The gun of the nearest helicopter leveled itself at Nureyev's head. He grinned. God, he had forgotten how much fun this was.

As the gun fired, Nureyev ducked. The laser seared through the air near his ear, but in a split-second motion, he sprang to his feet and shoved off the hood of the car. His outstretched hand caught on the landing skid of the helicopter, followed by his other hand a moment later as he swung forward. The position he was in now was slightly uncomfortable and admittedly unfamiliar - for all the heist experience he had never swung from a moving helicopter before. One of his feet banged against a floating billboard, and he winced - that was definitely going to leave a bruise. On the bright side, the giant gun couldn't shoot him without damaging the helicopter itself. A moment later, the door of the helicopter slid open and a disgruntled young pilot's face appeared above him. 

"I am giving you one last chance to surrender," said the pilot, pointing a much smaller gun at the thief's face. "And if you do not, I will shoot you."

"I would much prefer you didn't," replied Nureyev cooly. "My glasses are  _very_ expensive and I do not wish to go to the trouble of stealing a replacement pair."

The pilot frowned. "What?"

"I mean, can you imagine?" asked Nureyev with a casual conversational tone that was not appropriate for this scenario. He let go of the skid with one hand and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his gun, which he had strapped into a garter earlier. "Finding a new pair that matched my prescription and style? Why, it would be almost impossible. In fact -"

"Alright alright, I've had enough of your chatter," snapped the pilot. He clicked the gun into place and took aim. "Now shut up. Surrender or die." 

Nureyev sighed. "I was afraid you would say that. How unfortunate - for you." 

With the arm still clinging to the helicopter skid, he shoved himself up and, in a single deft movement, grabbed onto the door handle with his free hand and smashed the pilot in the face with the back of the gun. The man's nose crunched under the metal, but before he could cry out, Nureyev's high heel met him in the chest and sent him flying backward into the helicopter's control panel. He lay still in a motionless heap, groaning. 

"Let's see." The thief skirted around the collapsed man and sat down before the control panel. He traced the route on the navigation screen. "Where are you heading..."

His fingertip landed on the helicopter's destination, and a shiver ran down his spine.  _Oh no._  Dark Matters. Oldtown branch. That was not a place he wanted to be. As he contemplated the control panel, wondering if he could make the helicopter change direction, a siren blared to his left. Another helicopter flanked the one he was in, with another pilot waving a gun and shouting something about one last chance.  _Time to go_. 

Nureyev threw open the door to the other side of the helicopter and surveyed the city rushing by. There was a tall building ahead with a spire, which gave him a stupid idea, one that was much better as a worst-case-scenario than an actual plan. He started back towards the control panel, but at that moment a laser bullet pinged against the side of the helicopter. Nureyev fumbled with his own gun and lifted it to send a barrage of return fire and - 

And then suddenly he wasn't in the helicopter at all, but underground in Miasma's lair and the gun in his hand was not pointed at a pilot but at the dark shadows that at any minute could turn into guards and death. Juno was next to him and they were both breathing heavily, and his back hurt, and -

Another laser beam pinged into the metal, so close that he felt its heat near his ear. The thief gritted his pointy teeth.  _I did not want to do this._ But he couldn't win. He couldn't win a gunfight. He had no choice. 

Nureyev hit the self destruct button on the control panel. As it began to count down, he backed away a few paces to get a running start, then sprinted through the narrow space of the helicopter and launched himself out the other door. For a moment he was falling. The wind, very sharp and cold, rustled his overcoat and hair. Then, as the helicopter explorded behind him, his hand seized on the spire of the tall building. Momentum swung him out of the sky and to the spire, and his body slammed up against the cold metal, completely knocking the wind out of him. He clung to the spire feebly for a moment, and then trembling he lifted his face up to the sky. Mercifully, most of the helicopters had been caught in the blast. The ones that hadn't were on their way to the ground. He had, for now, escaped. Nureyev drew in a shuddery breath. This wouldn't last long. Eventually, someone would take note of a man at the top of the tallest building in Oldtown's weak skyline.  _I just need one moment_ , he thought, pressing his forehead to the spire.  _One moment._ He counted to ten and waited for his heart rate to slow down. In the air, there had been a split-second where he wondered if he had miscalculated - if he would overshoot his jump or time it wrong and instead of landing safely, collapse into a splatter on the pavement. Dead. Forgotten. 

 _But that didn't happen_. He began to climb gracelessly down the spire to the roof of the building.  _Honestly, Peter,_  he scolded himself. _Listen to your fretting. You sound like Juno_.

His heeled feet landed on the roof of the building, and he crept over to a nearby hatch. It was locked, of course, but locks were no opponent for a master thief. They were toys in his hands, weak contraptions easy to overcome; a moment later they lay at Nureyev's feet, and he lifted the hatch. A ladder lapped at the edge of the roof underneath it and stretched down. Down into darkness too deep for him to see. Nureyev clicked his tongue, curious.  _Well, this should be interesting_. He put his lockpicks back in his overcoat pocket, tucked the pistol back into his garter, and set his knife between his teeth.  _After all, it's not every day that I find myself confronted by the unexpected._

The hatch door slammed shut above him, and then everything was dark. Once he reached the bottom of the ladder, he took his knife out from between his teeth and pulled a flashlight out of one overcoat pocket. 

On the nearest wall was a mural that read,  _NORTHSTAR ENTERTAINMENT._


	3. Weapon: Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Northstar Entertainment Oldtown building is a storage room. In that room is a box. In that box is a piece of someone's past - someone very dear to one particular homme fatale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What even is a chapter summary. 
> 
> Also the new episode: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> Also I was listening to Panic! at the Disco while I wrote this chapter so if you get really edgy/hopeless lovers/scene-teen/steampunk vibes that's why. 
> 
> Also also, this chapter features a blatant Six of Crows reference. I had to do it. I'm not at all sorry.

Everything was very dark. 

Nureyev's heels clicked down a hallway lit only by his cigarette lighter. He had two kinds of plasma cutters on his person; he had six knives and two guns strapped to his body; in his pockets, a sketchbook fought for space with the four stacks of creds and a flask he had fancied. Yet somehow he did not have a single flashlight. So he had dug out his lighter.

The flourescent lighting above sparked occasionally, but never actually started up for longer than a half-second. In the brief flashes of light, he saw the murals on the hallway and pieced together that this building was owned by an entertainment company of some sort. They were probably very big on Mars, but he'd been so many places, all of which had big companies, that they blurred together. He couldn't exactly be expected to remember them all. This one, apparently, made children's stories with amusing names, flashy and dramatic. "ANDROMEDA THE CHAINMAIL WARRIOR!" proclaimed a mural on one wall next to a picture of a spunky woman, who was drowned in shadow again before the flourescents afforded him enough time to look at her face. 

Mag never told him any stories. Children's stories were all about things that would not happen, and could not happen. Mag had only ever cared about the future. It was just as well that he didn't have any childhood heroes, because now he was certainly as far from a hero as one could be. A slight smile crossed the thief's face as he imagined himself a childbook villain.  _Be good or Peter Nureyev will get you._ He liked the sound of that. 

Aside from the brief flashes of light, or perhaps because of them, there was a strange eerieness to the hallway, and then to the stairwell he descended. No sounds, except for his shoes and breathing; no physical clues at all, in fact, aside from the little he could discern from sight. He was completely out of his element. There were no windows to climb out of or cover to duck behind in a gun fight. For all he knew, this new hallway was full of people ready to mug him -

The flourescent lights glared to life. 

 _Oh, **hell.**  _Nureyev burst into a sprint. This hallway was empty, but heavy boots thundered in the one above. "SECURITY BREACH. SECURITY BREACH." wailed a robotic female voice. "CAPTURE. THE INVADER. CAPTURE. THE INVADER." Nureyev pulled out his gun and kept running. His teeth gritted as his high heels clattered against the stupid linoleum. He could hear the boots thundering down the stairwell that he had just left, and he turned to look over his shoulder - a fatal mistake, as suddenly the heel of his shoe caught on a rug and sent him sprawling to the floor. An instant later, the boots were in the hallway and the person wearing them was pinging laser bolts at his head. The lights seemed to be getting brighter, brighter - they seared the insides of his eyelids and voices rang in his head. "TERMINATE INVADER. TERMINATE INVADER. TERMINATE INVADER. TERMINATE INVADER."

Nureyev cursed, shoving off of the floor to his feet. He kicked off his heels and kept running. That linoleum was cold, except for where it had been touched by a blast from the gun. More soldiers, or guards or whatever they were, had arrived in the hallway. Nureyev took a running jump and let himself topple down the next stairwell, then just gave up on running and slid down the banister. He pulled out his gun and fired back at the guards who were now following. One cried out, and a thud hit the floor.

At the bottom of the stairwell was a heavy steel door, and it was locked. He shot the lock and shoved the door open. The lighting in here wasn't working as well - it came on and off in fitful bursts like the blinking of a madman. He could still hear the boots in the distance, but he no longer cared. This hallway was a maze of doors and he did not know which one to take. Peter Nureyev had been caught by surprise, and he hated it. Everything was steel down here. Lasers would be useless - anything he fired would could bouncing right back. He chose a hallway at random and ran down it, then chose another branching off of that. Were they still following him? Could they hear his footsteps? Follow his scent?

He barreled through another door and fell headfirst into a disfunctional elevator shaft. Instinct kicked in and his hands reached out into the darkness for a connection. Finally he caught something and managed to slow his descent. This was a very old elevator, the kind still pulled by pulleys and ropes instead of electricity. He slid down the rope by his hand, (leaving quite a terrible burn on his wrist), and finally felt his feet hit the cold surface at the bottom. The top of the elevator, most likely.

Nureyev slumped in a heap on the top of the cold metal, gasping for breath. A damp lock of hair fell into his eyes which he did not have the strength to push back. His entire body shook. But he didn't have time for that either.  _Move,_  his every instinct screamed. The thief flicked on his lighter again and crept to his left, where there was a door slightly above him. It took him a moment to register that this was wear the elevator would open. He wrenched the doors open and climbed out. 

This was not a hallway, but a single room. To his right was a desk with a lamp and a comms that probably didn't work anymore. Nureyev flicked on the lamp. To his surprise, it turned on. The room was now bathed in a gentle light that showed every other space was covered by a maze of cardboard boxes, filing cabinets, and stacks of paper. He decided not to worry about that now, because suddenly his knees felt very weak. 

He sank onto the desk, one hand fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette. The lighter sent a puff of smoke into his face as the flame licked the top of the small cylinder; Nureyev breathed the smoke in and pressed the cigarette between his teeth. He didn't even realize he was crying until one of his tears dripped onto the lighter and briefly put it out. 

"Ah," he mused, brushing his wrist over his eyes. He drew in a long puff of smoke and let it out in a slow, shaky sob.  _Why ever am I crying?_ He'd been shot at before, many times - just a few minutes ago, on the helicopter. So why was this any different?

Perhaps it was this place - this stupid, childish, unnerving place. Perhaps it was the way that the robotic female voice referred to him as "invader"; as a man without a name, that description felt a little too personal. Or maybe it was just everything. The heist had failed. The thief had failed. And that was all he was now, a thief fighting for what he had already lost. 

Nureyev blew out a cloud of smoke and pressed his hand over his face.  _Oh, stop crying_ , said the sensible part of him.  _I can't_ , said the other part of him. The cigarette helped. The smoke filtered through his teeth and floated along his tongue, pumping into his blood and settling him. He was a man without a name. He faded into smoke at will, and now the smoke was a part of him. 

When it had burned almost to the end, he stubbed the cigarette on the desk, since he couldn't crush it underheel. He'd quite liked those heels. He would miss them. 

Since he was in this room anyway, he decided he might as well see if there was anything worth taking. He certainly couldn't go back into the elevator shaft and climb up. Those men might still be looking for him. Nureyev picked his way through the cluttered maze of storage and decay. The surfaces were all covered with a thick blanket of dust. Some of the boxes had names written on them, and eventually he pieced together that they were the names of employees. He swept his keen dark eyes around the room. Nothing in here seemed to be of any value - that is, until his roving gaze caught a box in the back marked "Steel". 

Before he could even make a decision about it, he crossed the room and knelt beside the box. His sharp nails tore through the packing tape; and he blew off dust from the contents. A layer of it puffed up into his face, sending him into a brief coughing fit. _I won't be disappointed if this is nothing_ , he asserted. There were lots of people named Steel on Mars, and thus he had no reason to believe that this box was in any way related to -

His hands found a picture frame, and he stopped short. The picture showed a smiling woman, a boy he didn't know, and a much younger version of... someone he did. As he rifled through the paperwork and the notebooks, the personal effects and the picture frames, it became clear to him that the owner of all this had been Juno's mother, an old employee of the company - and that she had been fired. This stuff likely came from her desk or office. At the bottom of the box was a small stuffed doll that looked somehow familiar. It took Nureyev a minute to realize it was a doll of the Andromeda character from the mural. With that realization, he somehow knew that this had belonged to a very young Juno Steel. =

_He blinked awake in the sunlight of the Mars morning. A single shaft of light streamed through the dark curtains, falling across his face. It was beautiful. He closed his eyes and soaked in it for a moment longer. There was no rush. For the first time in his life, he felt truly present in this moment. Eventually, he opened his eyes again and sat up. He glanced to his left, and -_

_"Juno?"_

_Juno was gone. His clothes were gone, his gun was gone. There wasn't even a note. It was as if he had never been there to begin with._

"Stop," Nureyev said aloud. If he kept this up, he would need another cigarette. Or perhaps a mop. He rubbed his sleeve across his stinging eyes and sat down on the nearest box, still clutching the Andromeda doll. And he decided to make a decision. 

Life was short. His had almost ended just a few minutes ago, multiple times. And in his entire short thirty-six years of life there had never been anyone like Juno Steel. Not in the outer rim. Certainly not elsewhere on Mars. When Juno left, he had assumed it was because the detective didn't want him anymore, but he supposed there wasn't any harm in confirming that for certain. 

So, step one: Get out of Oldtown. If the threats made by that obnoxious-voiced mayor and his helicopters were true, this was no place for a master thief. The second step was to decide where to go next. It was dangerous to stay in Hyperion City, especially when he had failed his heist and the various people he'd lied to would be looking for him. But he didn't care about that suddenly. He wanted to stay - with Juno. 

But only if Juno wanted him too. He had to try.

He chuckled quietly. Imagine him getting sentimental all because of a stuffed doll and a quick trip into memories. He settled down to wait until he calculated it safe to leave - or found himself strong enough to fight anyone that would stop him. 

 

It rarely rained on Mars, but this was one of those times. With a bit of lying, a lot of bribing, and a mild amount of murdering, the thief stole a new pair of heels got out of the Oldtown checkpoint. From there it was easy enough to steal a car and drive to Juno's agency. It was closed and locked, the doors boarded up. So he drove to Juno's apartment, which was also locked but not boarded up. He let himself in through the window and walked through the silent rooms until he found Juno's office. His fingertips plucked a piece of paper from a small pile and found an envelope in one of the drawers; luckily it was the first drawer, or he would have felt guilty for snooping. _Fancy me feeling guilty about anything,_ he thought, amused. He clicked one of Juno's pens and scrawled a single word across the paper. 

_"Dinner?"_

The thief spritzed the note with his cologne and folded it into the envelope. He sealed the fold of the envelope with a lipstick kiss and set it on Juno's desk. Then he left the way he had come in. Outside, it was still raining. His reflection manifested briefly in the puddles under streetlights and then shattered once he stepped through them. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Juno's apartment. His teeth pressed into a faint, sharp smile, and he stepped away from the streetlights. The shadows swallowed him whole. 

Juno would figure out how to find him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This story was a lot of fun. If I opened a podcast prompt meme, would anyone be interested?


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